Muh Wa'ipi and Ilvermorny
by Eira Stradling
Summary: Harry Potter world set in modern day America. Muh Wa'ipi is a Scourer descendent American Indian who resents the fact that she was born with magic. Her tribe exiled her and left her to survive alone. Maybe someone can help her accept herself and her powers, and maybe she can help someone find their way. WARNING: language and themes may not be for readers under sixteen.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Waking up at sunrise doesn't make me a morning person. There really isn't a choice of when to wake up—I wouldn't sleep later than sunrise even if I did have shelter for the night. The daylight seems to be connected to me somehow.

It's things like that that made me lose everything. I hate it, but there's no way to change it. I'd give anything to be normal, but I can't change what's inside me. I've tried. I thought if I could, they'd take me back. Now that it's been ten years—and six days—I've come to realize that even if I got rid of it, I'd still be the dangerous freak. Six days—almost a week since the anniversary. I don't know what I expected, but I thought something would change. Nothing did. Las Vegas is still Las Vegas, I'm still the freak, and the sun wakes me up every morning.

Time to move. My back aches from last night, and the rest of me is weary. It was a wild night. Six instances of sirens, four times waking up after hearing footsteps, and two screams from a mile away. I wonder how many more there were that I didn't hear. It hardly matters—I couldn't have saved them. Let's face facts—no one screams like that unless Death is at their door. I've learned how to hear the difference.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if not for It. The reservation is a lot different than the city I now haunt. I wouldn't be able to tell the difference between hook-up and terror, that's for sure. I'd have been in school all the way through—maybe I'd be in college by now. Fourth grade is the last year I went to school. Ten years old, oblivious to what would come out from inside me and ruin everything, that's the last bit of normality I can remember. A month after the big double digits—that's all I had before my life went to hell in a handbasket. I remember the blurred fear and confusion as the people I loved, whom I was certain loved me, regarded me with disgust, disdain, even hatred. The worst was the realization that I was alone—totally and completely. The "hitch-hiking phase" is fuzzy; I remember lonely desert roads and smelly pick-up trucks I shouldn't have ridden in. My stomach constantly ached because there was nothing to eat for days at a time. I'm used to that now. Getting used to hunger was hard, but getting used to the grief was even harder. I didn't understand it then, but I do now. Magic is evil and dangerous, and so I had to be exiled for the good of the tribe. Knowing they had no choice didn't make it any easier. As a matter of fact, the ache in my stomach isn't as consistent as the ache in my heart even now. That's saying something. I still miss all of them, after almost a week and ten years.

Today is just another day. I have to remind myself of that because when I look back, these days will be a blur of hunger and running. There's less running these days, because Child services can't do anything about me now, but people don't usually take kindly to pick-pockets. My gift that isn't evil is my ability to vanish in a crowd. Being invisible to most people is something I use daily. I'm small, with nondescript features except my scar, so it isn't magical. It's social. People don't want to take notice of a dirty black-haired girl, so they don't. I'm just one of the crowd with a backpack and my hands in my pockets—when I'm not sneaking into someone else's. You never know what you'll find, a phone, wallet, cash, sometimes a snack. Sometimes there's nothing, but you just move on to the next sucker. Working in the streets of Las Vegas is probably easier than other cities because of the casinos. People moving in, out, and are usually intoxicated and carrying cash they've just "won". It makes my life easier, all in all.

So that's where I pick my way just after dawn, with my tired eyes, sore back, and aching stomach. It's time to break the law again.

A/N: Hi everyone! Just a Harry Potter fanfic set in America. Characters and plot are all mine, the world is not. I don't plan on using any characters from the books, but should I sneak them in, they obviously belong to Queen Rowling. Reviews are appreciated


	2. Chapter 2

Bad luck. Really, really bad luck—damn! Get out, get out, disappear somewhere, anywhere. Where are the dark allies when you need them? Then again, it's the middle of the day. Allies won't help; ok, just find a crowd. There—go—move—

Shit!

His grip on my arm is firm, but doesn't hurt. I try to jerk away but he's stronger than he looks. Glaring at him as fiercely as possible loosens his grip just enough. My scar comes in handy sometimes. Like a snake, I slip out and into the best hiding spot ever: a huge crowd of tourists. Get to the middle quickly, then slow down to their pace. My best vanishing act. I smirk while keeping my head down, hiding my scar and making me smaller. Now all I am to the others is the nondescript dirty girl with black hair and olive skin. I make my way to the side edge of the crowd slowly, earning myself a ten-dollar bill, and sneak to a side street. In an empty dirty corner, I check my days' worth: the ten I just got, an older iPhone, and a pack of gum.

A voice calling me makes my head jerk up and hide my wares. Leaning against the wall, I watch Rat jog up to me. He's panting by the time he gets to me, and I can't help my grin.

"I'm honored by your intense need to see me," I joke. Rat rarely runs—only when he has to does he move past his lazy stroll.

"Ha, ha," he wheezes, and rests his hands on his knees. I wait patiently for him to get his breath back, mostly because it's amusing to watch him attempt to speak when he's barely got his breath.

"Ok," he starts, finally with his normal, higher pitched rasp, "let's see what you got."

"Is it my turn to share first?" I tilt my head and raise the only eyebrow I can lift—the left one—while Rat rolls his eyes and leans against the opposite wall. He simply waits, with a not-at-all subtle "come on" look on his narrow face.

"Alright," I give in, "take a look-sie."

The gum and phone are presented to him.

"Score on the iPhone," he comments, "and I know a kid looking for gum. Craving."

"How much?" I ask.

"Kid's got five for the gum, and I can send T over for the phone. I think she's feeling generous."

"Alright, that's fair," I decide.

"Corner of fifth, half an hour?" he proposes.

"Yeah, good deal." I tell him, putting away my merchandise. Rat nods, and walks down the ally. I make my way back to the main street where I lost "Red". Clever guy, that one. It's rare that someone catches me. Bright red hair sticking out all over with green eyes and rectangle glasses, I figured an easy mark. But nope, he got me. He turned around just when I was reaching for his pocket. I got nothing from him, which makes me salty. He looked like a good mark, too—well dressed, good posture, and the tourist dazed look on his face. I sigh, knowing I won't always get the ones I want.

Darting across the street, I turn my thoughts to my meeting with T. She's tough, cocky, and rules our section of the black market. Her rep is widespread, and it won't be long till she expands her territory. I try to stay on her good side in general, for my safety and because while a bit scary, T is always fair and straight with everyone. Without her, I'd be dead by now. She bought my offerings when I first started, and they were pathetic. I got caught a lot back then, but I have never gotten caught by the police. I'd like to say I'm just that good, but a lot of that was luck.

Luck can be very helpful. I'm convinced it's why I'm still breathing. There have been too many close calls for me to take my own breath for granted. I only have a few scars, one of them visible because it stretches over the right side of my face, and a lot of lessons have been learned since I got out of the battered sedan that took me the last twenty miles. Most have been things like how to dodge the government, the police, how to survive and take care of myself in general, how to fight (physically and verbally), and how to steal someone blind. The streets teach more than schools do. I had teachers like T who actually helped me, but also teachers who wanted nothing more than to hurt me. Those who wanted who hurt me may have taught me more than those who actually wanted to help me. Something I heard a mom tell her kid: "you learn more from your failures than your successes." It's tough to say that to the six-year old the mom decided was ready to hear, but it's true. It makes me wonder what I've learned from "Red".

A/N: Here's chapter two. Same disclaimers as last time-story and characters are mine, the world is Queen Rowling's. There will be magic action in the next chapter-I wanted to lay the groundwork first. Reviews are appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

My back can feel the uneven bricks of the wall behind me press into the achy spots from this morning. I check my watch, and note that there are two minutes until I will see T. I'm not sure from which direction she'll enter the scene, but I know she'll be here. Sure enough, I spot her lean figure moving like a ghost through the populace. That's what we are, really. We are the ghosts of lost potential and broken families, unseen and feared by the rest of society. They call us vermin and ask leaders why we roam the streets instead of a prison, but none of them would recognize any of our faces, much less understand our lives of quick thinking and survival. I envy them and hate them for their ignorance. I know their lives. Hell, I've lived their lives. If they tried to live the life I do, they'd be dead by midday. They are both the enemies and the aspirations. Honestly, no one on the streets wants to be there. We want the warmth and security of middle class homes. Being rich would be nice, but I, and the rest of us, would be fully content getting by legally without worrying about when and where our next "meal" will be.

"Hey," T greets me. I nod, and get straight to business. That's how T works.

"Nice find," she admits, examining the phone. Nodding, she looks me in the eye. "What model?"  
"It's a four, I think," I tell her.

"You're probably right," she turns the phone over, looking for scratches. She tilts her head, and I know she's calculating what it's worth, and how much she's willing to pay for it.

"It's still in circulation," she muses aloud, "and in perfect condition. I can give you…one-oh-five."

My left eyebrow wings up. Rat said she was feeling generous, but $105 for a phone that was going out of style? Then again, that's $105 to me for one go. Total days' worth would be $120; who am I to question it?

"Deal," I say, holding out my hand. T pockets the phone, and counts out cash. Five twenty's and one five later, she gives me a nod and walks down the street. I turn, and Rat is strolling towards me with a new kid. The poor guy can't be more than twelve years old. I sigh, knowing he's one of Rat's rescues. When they get to me, I pull out the unopened pack of mint gum.

"All twelve pieces present," I guarantee. I toss him the pack. He barely manages to nab it, and breaks the seal. Smart; it's to check for what I call the "pawn shop" trick. I'd get a box, plastic wrap, and a rock. The rock goes in the box, plastic wraps around that, and the hand dryer in the bathroom of any gas station seals it like new. He probably knows that trick because he uses it. I know I did when I was his age.

"Five dollars," he states, looking up from under his untidy bangs.

"Good deal," I reply, and put out my hand. A wrinkled five to me, twelve sticks of gas station gum goes to the quiet kid Rat's trying to save. I give Rat a soft look, hoping he takes it as a genuine "good luck". He'll need it to keep the kid out of a gang.

As I start to turn away, a crappy Beemer screeches to a stop beside us. I freeze, and check the kid's colors.

Shit. He's going to die. Rat realizes it too late, and steps in front of him as five guys in blue clamber out of the beat-up vehicle. I gulp. If there's one thing to stay away from, it's gang fights. The kid is wearing a green T-shirt, which could be a coincidence if I believed in them.

"Check the brand," says the guy from the driver's seat.

"It's just a t-shirt," Rat tries to protect the little squirt, but the Blue Devils aren't buying it.

"You're going to tag a kid for wearing green?" I step in, and give them my signature "are you fucking serious?" look. The leader of the group chuckles and checks me out. Creep.

"She yours?" he questions Rat.

"'She' isn't anyone's," I scoff, "and you can fuck off."

"Ooooooh," the other Devils laugh, "you got a spitfire there, Damien."

"Moo," Rat warns, clearly jumpy.

"Get out of here," I don't look at him, keeping eye contact with "Damien", "I got this. Get him out of here."

"You take orders from a bitch?" One of the thugs mocks Rat. He doesn't answer and puts a hand on the kid's shoulder, who's been too scared to make a sound.

"Are you going to start something, bitch?" Damien takes a few steps toward me.

"Do I look stupid to you?" I give a quick fake laugh, "I just don't need your 'kill people' bullshit tonight. The kid's wearing a shirt that's probably from the GoodWill or something, and you're about to pop him? Are you fucking kidding me?"

I know immediately that I've miscalculated. Damn it! At least Rat can get the kid out—all eyes are on me, and so is Damien's .45.

I'm dead. So, so very dead.

"You wanna say that again, bitch?" Two steps closer, and the gun is pointed at the middle of my forehead. Well, fuck.

"Anybody would say anything with a gun to their head, man," I gulp. Rat and the kid have vanished, which is good, but we're in the cokehead neighborhood, which is bad. If somebody sees a gun here, they pull the shades, and you can bet they won't call the cops. Their drugs need protection more than a girl they don't know. My options are to either get lucky or get shot.

"True enough," Damien considers, but doesn't move the gun, "but we're going to take a ride. We're going to have some fun," he says with a nasty, yellow grin. My stomach turns over. Oh, hell no is this happening. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

For once, I'm frozen and speechless. The gun and the man are coming closer and closer, and I focus on his yellow, broken teeth. The lips surrounding them are stretching into a sneer. I think this is the most terrified I've ever been, but I can't just stand there waiting. I'm a survivor, and I'm a fighter, damn it.

"Stay away from me," my voice wavers and fades out while the other goons laugh and laugh. The gun is closer, and so is the crooked smile.

"Stay back!" The renewed whiplash of my voice wasn't enough. Laughter is echoing in my head, the grin burning in my eyes, and the gun leaves me with nowhere to go. There's no such thing as a hero on the streets. No one's going to stop them but me.

No way in hell is he getting any closer.

NO.

Of their own accord, my arms fly up slightly above my shoulders. I'm not sure if the "NO" was in my head or if I screamed it, but the energy that burst out manifested in flames shooting from my palms toward Damien and his underlings.

They all scream in fear and pain while my flames lick at their writhing forms. As horrified as I am, I can't do anything for them. I don't know how to take it away, how to bring forth water, how to do anything at all. So, with tears racing down my cheeks, I turn and run. I need to exile myself now. This is why my tribe refused to care for me any longer. I'm too dangerous for anyone. My feet pound the cracked sidewalk and I find the crossroad. If I go one way, I'll be in the desert by midnight. I will be alone for the rest of my life, but I am too dangerous to be among people. Even one person would be endangered by my presence. I'm not able to trust myself not to hurt others. Somehow, I'll take myself away from everyone and everything. It's the only way to ensure that I never hurt anyone ever again.

I turn to the left, ready to leave Las Vegas behind. The Mojave Desert will be my new home, and it will be my refuge. A desert home isn't new to me, but I haven't seen the desert in a decade. I'm not altogether sure I'll survive in a land without much water, but I don't have another choice. So resolved, I take the next step.

"And where are you off to?" a voice quips from behind me. Naturally, I whip 180° around to find the voice with an odd accent belongs to…

Red? What the fuck?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hi guys! Here's the next chapter-same disclaimers as before; and hopefully you like it.**

 **Chapter 4:**

Dumbfounded, I gaped at the same guy who had been one of the very few to catch me in a long time. How did he find me? This is ridiculous. My day couldn't go more wrong.

"Are you going to answer me?" he inquires, tilting his head to the side.

"Who are you?" I disregard his questions.

"I'm Rian," he sticks out his hand. I look at it a while before clasping it briefly.

"Call me Moo," I say simply, putting my hands in my pockets.

"Pleasure," he grins, "but you've not answered my questions…Moo."

Angry, I snap, "I don't answer questions from people I don't know."

"But you do know me," he counters cheerfully, "I'm the one you tried to steal from earlier today."

I wipe my face to hide my burning cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about," I snarl.

He has the audacity to snicker. I clench my fists and keep them at my sides. "Stay calm," I order myself. I won't harm anyone else. I won't, I won't, I won't.

"What are you doing?" He sounds confused. My eyes are squeezed shut.

"You need to get out of here," I urge, still trying to control my emotions.

"I'll not go anywhere 'til you answer my questions," he is stubborn. That's not good. I can feel the inflamed anger shifting into a vortex of fear. My heartbeat is spiking and my breaths are getting shallow; I'm going to lose it.

"Get out of here," I plead, "it's not safe!" My eyes are still tightly shut, and yet more tears leak out. For once, I pray. Don't let me hurt him. Let him hear my desperation and relent. Please.

"Why?" His confusion and curiosity are making him stay. I have to tell some of the truth, and hope he's enough to get away from the monster I tried so hard not to become.

"I'll hurt you," my eyes open, and I choke on a sob before I'm able to continue, "I can't stop it. Go! Before—before it's too late!"

"But you don't want to bring me harm," his face and voice soften, and his hand reaches out to me, "let me help you."

"Can you?" I whimper, shrinking back.

"I know what you are, and I know how to help." I look from his open, serious face to his outstretched palm. As much as I wish someone could help me, I don't think anyone will be able to. A quiet thought slips into my brain: why shouldn't I try? I'm a fighter. If there's anything I learned from the streets, it's how to get up when you've been kicked down. It's not time to give up, not yet.

"You're sure you can help me get rid of this?" I question him again.

"Why would you want to be rid of your gift?" He seems very taken aback.

"I don't want this!" I cry, "it's evil and, and _wrong_. I hurt people!"

"You don't have to," he assures me, "but it is not evil or wrong to have magic in you. As a matter of fact, not only can I teach you how to not hurt people, I can teach you how to use your own power to _help_ people."

I can only stare. He is saying the exact opposite of what I've heard for my entire life.

"I can…help people?" I want him to say yes, desperately. It's almost pathetic how emotional and dependent I am around him. I hate showing my vulnerabilities to others; I don't even know him. Maybe that's why it's easier to be weaker with him—he doesn't know that I am also strong yet, so he knows only that I need help. My pride still stings.

"Indeed you can," he smiles at me, "you don't want to hurt others. You don't have to. I'm repeating myself a bit, but you need to know that it's true. Let me help you."

There's only one way to find out for sure. The only regrets in life come from the chances you don't take. So, my only option now is to give "Red"—or Rian—a chance to fix me. I reach out, and our hands clasp.

The last thing I hear is a loud _CRACK_ and then everything spins. For a second, the ground leaves my feet, and I panic for the few milliseconds there are until the ground is back. I feel sick. Dizziness clouds my mind, and makes it a really bad idea to move. My balance is way off, and my vision is really slow to clear.

"Moo?" Rian's voice pushes through my head, "oh, I forgot—it's your first time. I'm so sorry, here—"

My arm is tugged and my feet stumble over each other and the floor reflexively, and all the colors spin around me manically. Somehow, my knees are on hard ground and Rian's hands are on my shoulders.

"Breathe, love," he says, "in and out…in and out…"

I try to suck in air, but everything is spinning too much for any of my bodily functions to actually work. Still, my mouth gapes and does its' best vacuum impression to keep me alive. Eventually, the dizziness stops and my stomach settles while the blurry landscape comes into focus. When I feel steady, I am able to process that I'm on my knees, leaning over a toilet, and Rian is still doing his "in and out" mantra. I react the way I usually do.

"What the FUCK just happened?!" I try to shout, but my voice is a pathetic wheezy rasp. What a pity. If it had been a shout, I can pretend that Rian wouldn't be laughing.

A/N: Sorry about the hiatus. Finals came up and then I was job hunting for the summer. I should be able to upload regularly now. Hope you guys liked Chapter 4, and maybe would be so moved to review? Let me know how I'm doing, and what you think should happen next. I'd appreciate it.


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